For Once in my Life: a Bridget Jones Fic
by Eggsbenni221
Summary: Column Universe: "When you offer a woman everything and it takes her three weeks to make up her mind, sooner or later you have to face up to the fact that she doesn't really love you." Picks up on 3 March hjust after Mark gives Bridget the news about his job offer in Japan; told from Mark's point of view.


For Once in my Life: a Bridget Jones Fic

by Eggsbenni221

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; they are the property of Helen Fielding. No money is being made with this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Dedication: to the memory of Jane Austen, and to my peanuts, for all of your continued support.

"For once in my life, I won't let sorrow hurt me

Like it's hurt me before.

For once I have someone I know won't desert me.

I'm not alone any more.

For once I can say, 'This is mine. You can't take it.'

Long as I know I've got love I can make it.

For once in my life, I've got someone who needs me."

-3 March-

Mark sighed heavily as he paced the floor of his bedroom, dragging a hand through his hair and cursing under his breath. Damn it! He would conquer this, he told himself; he must conquer it. His hand shook slightly as he reached for the snifter of brandy he had helped himself to the moment he'd entered the house, and some of the liquid splashed over the rim as he swirled the contents. Christ, what had he done?

Taking a fortifying sip of his drink, Mark replayed that agonizingly awkward conversation with Bridget just hours before, when he'd given her the news about his job offer in Japan: "When you offer a woman everything and it takes her three weeks to make up her mind, sooner or later you have to face up to the fact that she doesn't really love you." Dear God, had he actually said that? He felt a pang of guilt as he recalled the look of mingled astonishment and hurt that had flashed in Bridget's eyes and would have given anything to have taken back his words. With another curse, he knocked back the remaining brandy; the liquor burned as it hit the back of his throat, but he relished it as a distraction from the suffocating tightness building in his chest.

He set down his empty glass and moved to the dressing-table, reaching into the top drawer and withdrawing a small, dark-wood box, which he opened as he dropped onto the edge of his bed. Closing his eyes against the sting of threatening tears, Mark lifted the ring from the box and cradled it in his hand. It was a small, circlet of gold, simply set with an oval-shaped turquoise stone—deceptively simple, given what he had spent on its purchase. He raised his head suddenly, fancying he had heard someone at his front door. He glanced at the clock and saw it was well past 11.00; he must have imagined the noise.

Absently tracing his fingers along the stone's smooth, polished surface, Mark rose and went to the window, pressing his forehead against the glass. It had begun to rain; large, heavy drops beat steadily against the pane, echoing his somber mood. The ring had been an impulsive purchase; Mark was never given to impulsive purchases, and with good reason he thought as he stared down at the costly trinket cradled in his palm. Ordinarily, he might simply have returned the ring, but the circumstances surrounding its purchase had been, well, rather unusual. As he continued to study it, he noticed, not for the first time, the way the color of the stone nearly matched Bridget's eyes.

"Stop this," he told himself sternly. "Just stop it. This won't do at all." Turning from the window, his eyes fell on the empty brandy glass; yes, he decided. He could do with another drink. As he reached for the glass, he heard again what sounded like the ringing of the doorbell. Perhaps he hadn't imagined it after all then, and the caller, whoever it was, was being irritatingly persistent. Puzzled, and slightly disconcerted, Mark absently dropped the ring into his pocket and descended the stairs. The sharp admonition about the inconvenience of the hour he'd planned to deliver to his late-night visitor died on his lips when he opened the door to find Bridget standing before him—shivering, her face awash with mingled rain and teardrops.

"I'm sorry," she exclaimed without preamble before Mark could speak.

"I-what?" he spluttered.

"I'm s-s-sorry," Bridget repeated through chattering teeth. "For everything—for being so indecisive and-and everything, but the thing is, you were wrong about what you said earlier, in the pub."

Mark swallowed. "Bridget, you're-I—"

"I mean," she went on, "You're pompous and arrogant, and your contractual approach to marriage is completely unromantic, and you keep bunnies and Japanese boys in your bed, and you vote Tory, but damn it, Mark Darcy, I love you!" Mark closed his eyes and took a slow, calming breath, wondering if he had perhaps taken a bit too much to drink, or quite possibly was running a fever. He was hallucinating, surely, but when he reopened his eyes, there was Bridget, still dripping on his doorstep. "M-Mark?" she squeaked. "Are you…OK?" His eyes met hers in a long, unwavering look, and he stepped toward her, a tender smile trembling on his lips, at the precise moment she flung herself into his arms. Before she could speak, he locked his mouth on hers in a slow, deep, possessive kiss. As he tightened his hold on her, the remaining corner of his brain that clung to rational thought registered her wet, shivering form in his arms. He pulled back, smiling at the dazed expression in her eyes.

"Darling, you're freezing," he whispered. "God, I'm so sorry. Come," he said gently, taking her hand in his. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes…and into some dry ones," he added. If he was being given a second chance, he must keep his mind focused; he wanted to do this properly.

Fifteen minutes later, Bridget emerged from the hot shower Mark had insisted she take, having donned one of his t-shirts in place of her own wet clothes. The effect was slightly more enticing than he had expected, he realized as his gaze lingered appreciatively on the swell of her breasts beneath the cotton. Bridget sat down beside him on the bed, curling her legs beneath her and hugging herself as if for warmth.

"Come here," murmured Mark. He pulled her onto his lap, noticing as he did that she still trembled slightly.

"Are you still cold?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair back from her forehead. Bridget shook her head, chewing her bottom lip. "Bridget, love, what is the matter? Tell me." Instead of responding, Bridget tucked her head beneath his chin and began to cry into his chest. Slightly perplexed, Mark rocked her gently in his arms and rubbed her back in slow, rhythmic circles, saying nothing—indeed unable to speak for the lump rising in his throat.

"I'm s-s-sorry," Bridget sniffled.

"Shh, sweetheart, it's all right," whispered Mark, pressing her closer.

"No, it isn't!" exclaimed Bridget. "I feel so terrible about everything—for not being more decisive, for making you think I didn't-didn't love you-." Choking on the words, she dissolved again into tears. Between her sobs, Mark barely discerned an unintelligible stream of self-deprecation; he just caught words like "dysfunctional adult," "emotionally retarded," and "incapable of love."

"Oh, Bridget, no. No, darling, don't talk like that. Hush. It's all right. There now. Don't cry, love. It's all right. Shh. Oh God, this is all my fault. I should never have said what I did to you; I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me, sweetheart." He was rambling, struggling franticly to regain his composure. Unbidden, the tears he had endeavored to suppress rose to his eyes, and he buried his face in Bridget's hair in an attempt to conceal his emotion. A moment later, he felt her hand on the back of his neck, gently raising his head.

"Mark?" she said sharply. "Those aren't…you're not…are you?"

"What?" he asked.

"You are," Bridget said incredulously .

"What?" he repeated, rather too defensively he realized.

"Look at me," demanded Bridget. He did, reluctantly. "Mark Darcy, look at you. You're crying."

"Of course I'm not. Don't be absurd."

"You are," Bridget insisted, reaching up to brush the pad of her thumb across his cheek.

"And so what? Can't I be permitted to shed a manly tear or two now and then?"

"Of course, it isn't that. It's just that, well…"

"Well?"

"You-you really do love me," she murmured. As her lips curled upwards in a smile, and her eyes, still glistening with tears, began to shine with the light of her realization, Mark thought she had never looked more beautiful. As their mouths came together, Bridget's hands went to work unfastening the buttons on his shirt; when he felt the heat of her palm against his chest, he groaned. As she began tugging at the belt of his trousers, Mark slipped his hand beneath the t-shirt that still covered her and enclosed her nipple with his thumb and forefinger.

"I think we'll just do away with this, shall we?" he said, yanking at the shirt. "You'll be warm enough presently." Having succeeded in undressing, Mark tossed their clothes aside and rolled onto his back, pulling Bridget down beside him. They commenced their lovemaking slowly; with lingering caresses and breathless kisses, they listened intently to the language of their bodies—a language that, in years to come, would be as comfortable and familiar as the rhythms of their heartbeats. When Bridget finally fell asleep in Mark's arms, he lay awake for a long time, clinging tightly to what, just hours before, he was certain he had irretrievably lost.

Some time in the middle of the night, Mark resurfaced groggily and wondered for a moment at the cramped sensation in his hand; glancing down, he discovered he'd fallen asleep with his fingers still intertwined with Bridget's. The stiffness in his hand notwithstanding, he felt rather reluctant to disengage it. Gently, so as not to awaken her, he turned onto his side and fixed his eyes on her only to find her gazing sleepily up at him.

"You look adorable all disheveled and sleepy," she murmured.

Mark chuckled. "I'm glad you appreciate the view."

Freeing her hand from his grasp, Bridget slid in closer and wound her arms around him. As she shifted slightly to rest her head in the crook of his arm, she suddenly gave a squeal and leapt up.

"Ouch! Shit!" She fumbled in the sheets until, to Mark's utter astonishment, she came up with her would-be engagement ring. She stared down at it for what seemed like an eternity, her lips pursed. "Mark?" she said at last, seeming to choose her words carefully, "where did this come from?" With a groan, Mark buried his head in his pillow. This was not proceeding at all according to plan, though he supposed he ought to have grown used to that by now; Bridget had, after all, thrown his entire universe off its axis. Remembering that he'd slipped the ring into his pocket, he realized it must have fallen out in his rather frantic removal of clothing earlier.

"Mark?" repeated Bridget. "What's this doing in your bed?"

"It's…that is, it was…I mean, oh Hell, I'd intended it as an engagement ring…your engagement ring, I mean."

Bridget blinked in surprise. "My…engagement ring?" she repeated.

"Yes," said Mark, suddenly wanting to burrow under the covers and not emerge for several years.

"But you can't, that's-that would mean…"

"Yeeees?" prompted Mark gently.

"That would mean you…you really do want, want to marry me."

"Well, I'm glad you've come round to that conclusion," Mark said dryly. "I mean, that is, if you've no objection to having me." Bridget lowered her gaze, and for one heart-stopping moment, Mark was afraid for her to speak.

Finally she said in a whisper, "But you're leaving for Japan."

"Hmm, I don't recall actually saying that."

"But you said—" began Bridget.

"I said I'd been offered a job there. I didn't say I was taking it, though admittedly after you left tonight, and until you showed up at my door, I'd just about made up my mind to go." Bridget's eyes filled, and she quickly looked away, wiping them on a corner of the duvet. Tenderly Mark leaned down and kissed the spot just below her eye where a single teardrop still shimmered.

"Mark, you can't stay just for me. That-that wouldn't be fair."

"I'm not staying for you," he said softly. "I'm staying for us. I'm serious, Bridget."

"Even about marrying me?" she asked.

"Especially about marrying you."

A tentative smile trembled on her mouth. "Mark, are you really sure?"

"Love, if you'll recall, I've done this once before. The first time was a dreadful miscalculation, but I'm not a man accustomed to making the same mistake twice. Bridget, I'm asking you, that is, I want—" he paused, choking on the words.

Bridget's smile widened. "You beg me most fervently to relieve your suffering and consent to be your wife?"

"I think it could be a profitable arrangement. The thing is, I was looking at my tax break situation and—" At the look of horror on her face, Mark actually laughed. "Oh for Heaven's sake, darling, I was joking." With a deep breath, he reached down and took both of her hands in his. "Bridget," he said quietly. "Dearest, loveliest Bridget, will you marry me?" She tilted her head up to peck him on the lips. "Will that be an affirmative answer then?" he asked.

"Of course it is," whispered Bridget. With a contented sigh, she snuggled against his chest. "My very own Mr. Darcy," she murmured.

"Ah, yes, that reminds me." Mark reached down for the ring that still sat in Bridget's palm. Taking her hand in his, he gently slid it onto her finger, kissing her as he did so. He raised her hand to his cheek, then to his lips, trailing them across each finger. Bridget looked down at her hand cradled in his and studied the ring intently.

"Do you like it?" he asked tentatively.

"It's beautiful," she murmured.

"I know it's rather simple," said Mark, "and not perhaps what you would have picked out, but the thing is," he paused, barely managing to conceal his smirk, "There's quite an interesting piece of history attached to this ring."

Bridget glanced curiously up at him. "Really? Is it a family heirloom?"

Mark chuckled. "Not exactly, though given the name you're about to take, there is, shall we say, a certain continuity in your having the ring."

Bridget frowned. "I don't get it."

Mark reached for her hand again. "Bridget," he said with a solemnity in his tone that didn't entirely mask his amusement, "the ring I just gave you once belonged to none other than Jane Austen."

Bridget's eyes widened in surprise and delight. "Mark, you aren't serious."

"Oh, but I am."

"But how could you…how did you…"

"Procure it?" Mark smiled. "It was quite simple, really. You may have heard recently that Sotheby's was auctioning off this little gem."

"I think I do remember reading about it," said Bridget, blushing slightly, and Mark wondered if she had secretly been fantasizing about the very thing he'd just succeeded in realizing. "I thought I heard that the winning bidder was a private collector, and that he'd made his offer over the phone and…" her voice trailed off.

"And?" Mark prodded.

Bridget's hands flew to her mouth in astonishment. "And…oh my God! Mark!"

"Well, what is it?"

"Mark, I-it-it was you!"

Laughing at the look of mingled joy and incredulity on her face, Mark enfolded her in his arms and held her close. "I see you've pieced it together," he said, kissing the top of her head.

"I don't believe it," said Bridget. "Mark, I don't know what to say. This is so…so romantic."

"You sound surprised," answered Mark, affecting an injured tone.

Bridget kissed him. "I'm sorry."

"Hush, love. It's quite all right. You've already taken great pains on several occasions to enlighten me on my shortcomings in that particular area."

"It isn't that," insisted Bridget. "It's just that, well, it's such an impulsive sort of thing to do. It doesn't seem like you at all."

"Well, no," he agreed. "In fact, I was thinking precisely that just before you showed up, but I thought: if you accepted it, accepted me, it would have been worth it, and if you didn't, well, let's just say the money would have been the least of my losses."

"It must have cost you a fortune," said Bridget, staring down at the ring.

"I prefer to think of it as a long-term investment."

"Oh, Mark," she whispered, squeezing his hand.

"I love you, Bridget," said Mark, pressing her hand to his lips once more.

"I love you too," she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder. "I can't believe you spent so much money on me," she said after a moment.

Mark tilted her chin up to gaze directly into her eyes. "Just do me one favor," he said.

"What's that?" asked Bridget.

He grinned. "Don't ever ask me how much I love you."

The End

Notes

I drew inspiration for this story from the actual sale of the ring belonging to Jane Austen described here; Sotheby's auctioned off the ring for 152450 pounds this past summer (2012), and the winning bidder was in fact a private collector who made his offer over the phone. While this event obviously occurred some years after the period in the BJD timeline during which I've set this story, it struck me as the sort of thing Mark would have done for Bridget; thus I couldn't resist turning back the hands of time. Besides, that's half the fun of working within an alternate universe.

The song from which the epigraph is taken, "For Once in my Life," was originally recorded by Jean DuShon in 1967, though Stevie Wonder is credited with popularizing the tune with his up-beat version in 1968. My personal favorite cover is Michael Buble's version.

I have lifted bits of the dialogue directly from the original Bridget Jones Diary newspaper columns (The Independent 1995-97 and the Telegraph 1997-98 respectively). No copyright infringement is intended. I have also taken a few liberties with Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice as well as dialogue from the 1995 BBC adaptation of the novel starring Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy.


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